


That Place with the Thing

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mycroft has a costume drama kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Greg are at a weekend event. It's posh. It starts with a sort of costumed ball, on the first night, which this is. The boys have a bit of difficulty putting in the requisite time in company, shall we say. But then they get some private time. And then I'm just very, very mean, for a moment.</p><p>It does have references to Sheffie's "In Which Mycroft Has a Costume Drama Kink," which was in turn inspired by an illustration by Macpye and posted on Tumblr. And someone asked for some more of something similar, so this happened. :)</p><p>[Yeah, it's a working title. Because spoilers. I'll take suggestions... but also, this is probably a small outtake sliver of a much, much bigger thing. So I hem and haw about the need for a title for it.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Place with the Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In Which Mycroft Has a Costume Drama Kink](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/6929) by Sheffie Sharpe and Macpye. 



There was a knock at the door. “Come,” Mycroft called, glancing over his reflection’s shoulder at the door behind him. Greg poked his head around the door. “You nearly ready?”

“Nearly,” he said, turning back to the mirror in the door of the wardrobe. He’d just finished the buttons on the waistcoat, and slid the blue silk cravat off the top of the door with a whistling snap, glancing at Greg’s eye again in the mirror. “Never mind, Greg. We’ll make up for it after.” He smiled faintly, his fingers already busy - finding the center of the silk, bringing it up to press against his throat over the high-stand collar, quickly crossing the ends around the back and bringing them back to the front to tie.

“I thought you’d never been to this thing before,” Greg said, one hand on his hip as he watched Mycroft’s fingers fashion another masterpiece of silken architecture around his neck.

“I haven’t,” Mycroft said, frowning at him as he tucked the ends of the cravat inside the neck of the waistcoat, adjusting everything to sit right. 

“So how do you know how to tie that thing?” Greg asked, gesturing at the cravat, exasperated. 

“It’s a knot, Gregory,” Mycroft said, fishing a tie pin out of the small box on the shelf in the wardrobe. “They’ve been just below men’s faces for quite a few years now. I have seen them before.”

“You do know you’re the only person that can do that, right?” Greg asked, reaching up to smooth the deep blue silk across the collar stud, satisfied that Mycroft wasn’t aware of the small flaw in his appearance as it was on the back of his neck.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said absently, bending his neck as he felt the adjustment. “But it’s just a knot. It isn’t some secret Masonic handshake.”

“You mean even in school, you never saw the kids who could never quite get the tie right? You never had to help some new boy whose mum just couldn’t quite manage it? Just because you can look at a knot and figure it out without even touching it, you must be aware that some of us can’t.”

“Just as I understand that there are children who cannot read, adults who cannot cook, and policemen who cannot think.” He lifted the grey wool frock coat from the padded hanger.

“And politicians who are not always diplomatic?” Greg shot back, reaching to hold the jacket as Mycroft slid his arms into the sleeves.

“And I cannot cook,” Mycroft pointed out seriously. “I definitely have the worst of it.”

“Yeah, well, I have to put up with you. Cry me a river, sunshine.”

Mycroft smiled at him again in the mirror, taking his pocket watch from the shelf and slipping it into the waistcoat pocket, hooking the fob as he turned around to face Greg. “Acceptable?” 

Greg took a step back. The black boots were long and narrow, the lines of holes that made them brogues (he had had to learn this in self-defense) were also tricking Greg’s brain into believing they were a pair of Mycroft’s own shoes. The black trousers were much slimmer than anything he usually saw him in, and Greg had a whole new respect for what braces could do for an arse that a belt could not; Mycroft had a very nice arse, but the high waist on the trousers made it seem even slimmer, and the braces helped define it. He was actually grateful that the tails of the frock coat completely hid it, or he had fully intended to follow Mycroft around all evening, slapping away stray hands. 

The silvery, powder-blue patterned waistcoat should have been the star, the shawl collar deep enough to hide the full length of Greg’s fingers when he went to stroke it, but really, he wanted to muss the cravat. Having seen Mycroft’s fingers swirling it about, arranging the folds, tucking, pulling... But if he touched it, he knew he wouldn’t stop until he had Mycroft naked again, and then there would be regrets. Later. Eventually.

Probably.

He swallowed, looking up at Mycroft’s face. “Tonight is going to be very, very long, isn’t it?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “Bitterly. Shall we?”

On the way out the door, Mycroft caught up a silver-handled cane. “Oh, good grief,” Greg said slowly, eyeing it. The length of it was solid wood, carved in a twisted spiral. He could see the weight of it, and the ornate silver handle would only increase it. “Are you planning on starting a fight? Because if I saw that in a dark alley, I’d be calling for Trojan back-up.”

Mycroft glanced at him, and followed his gaze down to the stick. “Good heavens, what a suspicious mind you have.”

“I’m a cop,” Greg said, loudly, and with the kind of look he usually reserved for Sally when she asked if she needed to do something _now._

“I’d been braced for you to call it an umbrella substitute, but somehow it never occurred to me that you would accuse me of going equipped.” He ushered Greg down the stairs ahead of him.

“But really, why do you have it?” Greg asked, his eyes still on the stick. 

“They can demand that I attend this event, they can demand that I wear period dress, they can demand that I mingle, but no one has ever listened to my demands that my feet and legs not get sore.” He flashed Greg a bitter, humourless smile.

“You can sit down,” Greg told him, trying not to grin.

“I think you will find that chairs will be rather scarce commodities.”

Of course, Mycroft was right. Greg didn’t even notice at first, being handshaked around the room, introduced from one group to the next, even introduced to the same man three times. Noel Simpson was the only name he remembered, after meeting him three times. There may have been others, but by then Greg was noticing the lack of chairs, and wondering where Mycroft had got to. He ducked out of the next introductions and went in search.

He wasn’t sure how easy he would be to find. Many of the men had worn frock coats, and while most of them were black, there were enough of the same dark grey as Mycroft’s that he had to look carefully before moving on to the next room. He kept reminding himself that it was a stately home and not a palace, but it wasn’t much help.

Eventually he found him, and immediately wondered why it had taken so long. If Mycroft wanted to, he could fill a room all by himself. Tonight, though, he was being polite. Leaving room for others. He was listening to a woman who was wearing a deep, forest green gown, holding herself like a queen, speaking quietly only to him. Mycroft’s hips were canted to the side, one hand balancing part of his weight on the cane, the other hand tucked behind him. Greg watched the fingers twitch as he made his way closer. It seemed to be a serious conversation, and one that Mycroft wasn’t desperate to get away from, so Greg took his time.

“And it will all have to be redone,” the woman was saying as Greg stepped up beside them. She smiled at him, but took his presence as an end to what she was saying. Greg caught Mycroft’s eye.

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Muriel Parker.” Greg took her hand as Mycroft continued, “I can’t actually tell you how we know each other, I’m afraid, Greg - professional hazard.”

Greg smiled, and Muriel seemed delighted be the description, raising her eyebrows at Mycroft. “Enchanting! No need to ask how the two of you met. I’ve met Sherlock on a number of occasions,” she told Greg. “I always used to tease Mycroft that someday he would snap and his little brother would end up in prison, although more likely as the governor.”

Mycroft did smile at this, and Greg was surprised to see  no ice in the look. “I did arrest him the first time I saw him, it’s true,” Greg admitted. “But he’s much better these days.”

“If Mycroft weren’t here, I’d admit to being disappointed. Would you care to join me for a stroll?”

Mycroft leaned forward and scooped Muriel’s hand up, catching it with two fingers before she had even touched Greg’s arm. “I believe Greg came to speak to me, Muriel. We shall see you again.” He slid his fingers free of her hand and turned away with Greg, pointing them toward the far side of the room, away from the door.

“I just came to see how your legs were holding up,” Greg said quietly.

“I lost feeling in my left knee about forty-five minutes ago,” Mycroft muttered. “Walking is better than standing, if you don’t mind?” He swung past Greg and paused with his hand on the handle of a French door.

Greg glanced up at him, and back at the room, startled. “I... yeah, sure, off you go,” he said, waving Mycroft ahead. “I just assumed we were meant to stay in the house.”

Mycroft smiled back at him, shutting the door. The chill of the air struck Greg’s face, and he sighed, tipping his head back. “Oh, _Christ,_ it’s hot in there. I didn’t even notice.”

Mycroft touched his arm, drawing him away from the shapes of light thrown from the windows behind them. “You may not have noticed, but I have been aware of it for some time,” he said, their feet crunching on the soft chalky gravel of the path. “At least I’m not meant to be fixing anything. It’s like trying to focus in a sauna.”

Greg smiled sympathetically, then suddenly leaned forward and caught hold of the stick. “Here, give me this. You get that coat off. At least for a bit.”

“If I take it off now, it’s only going to seem more of a burden when we return,” Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. “Don’t indulge me.”

“What if I said I just wanted to get a better look at your arse?” Greg asked, trying to sound reasonable.

“I think I would have to say that you were a conniving son of a bastard who did his thinking with his testes.”

“You’re a vain swine and I know it,” Greg told him. “This might be a good time for you to reflect on the number of times I’ve done refreshers on the use of a truncheon.” He hefted the stick meaningfully.

“If you aim for my legs, I might just thank you,” Mycroft sighed, but then reached up to his coat and peeled it back. “This may be the worst thing you have ever done, but, oh, _God,_ this wool is hot.”

“You’ll be fine,” Greg said soothingly, helping him out of the heavy coat, folding it over his arm. “It does weigh about a stone, doesn’t it?”

“Some of it may be from me,” Mycroft said, pinching his shirt through the cravat and flapping it a bit. 

“Now that’s a lie,” Greg said, looking him over. “You know you haven’t broken a sweat.”

“Greg, I am tired, I am hot, I am stiff, and if you push me, I can see ‘petulant’ cresting the hill. Please don’t be reasonable at me.”

“If I stop being reasonable, then I’m left staring at your arse,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the evergreen hedge at the end of the path ahead of them.

“Also not helpful. At least I had the decency to wear a coat. I do have some pity.”

“Not much.”

“There is a reason I have been several rooms away from you for most of the evening,” Mycroft snapped back. “I knew tonight would be difficult, and now I’m wandering in a garden at night, with you.” He slapped one wrist against the other palm, behind his back, and turned his head pointedly away from Greg. “I have another five, maybe seven minutes before our absence will be commented on, and that is no way to start this weekend.”

“How much longer are we expected to mingle?” Greg asked.

“Ohh...” Mycroft snapped open his watch. “Another hour, at a minimum. An hour and a half, for safety.”

“Who writes these rules?”

Mycroft swiveled from the hips to look at him. “I have taken great care never to write them down.”

Greg laughed in surprise. “Hoist by your own petard,” he announced, mimicking a dreadfully inbred upper-class tone. “And what happens if you break them?”

“Not to be contemplated.”

Greg folded his arms across his chest, effectively hugging Mycroft’s heavy wool coat. “So who was Muriel, really?”

“One hesitates to say ‘old friend,’ but... that has the closest connotations. We have been adversaries, but most of the time our interests were congruent.”

“When you say old... Honestly, I’ve never seen anyone so...ageless. She could have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five.”

“I’ve never asked, but I suspect add another ten years to that and you’d be closer. She has always been formidable, and her reputation, well, I know she has been taking orders for a bit longer than I have.”

“And how long has she been giving them?”

This earned him a smile. “Not quite as long.”

“Have I ever told you how bloody relieved I am that we’re on the same side?”

“Are we?” Mycroft asked archly, but then smiled again. “And I am always relieved to find that you are not my adversary.”

“Ta.” 

They walked in silence for a moment. “Hadn’t we better head back?” Greg asked reluctantly.

“A few more minutes.” Mycroft drifted to a stop, and flapped his shirt again. 

“Don’t,” Greg said quickly, and looked away.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t do that,” Greg said, hearing the tension in his voice.

“Ah.” Mycroft glanced down at his hand, fingering the small stud of the aquamarine tie pin. “Shall I apologise?”

“Nooo, but you could remind me of this in an hour and a half.”

“Done,” Mycroft said quietly, holding out a hand for his coat.

An hour and a half later, Greg was in a corner of the main ballroom, surrounded by women. He had decided that the woman in the dark red taffeta had been a bit optimistic when she chose her corset, but the other two were fairing much better. The tall blonde in electric blue was telling a story he would have found terribly funny if he had drunk just a bit more brandy. As it was, he was tired enough to laugh anyway, and the youngest of the women, a tall redhead in very pale blue, kept looking at him. He was tired, but not so tired that he didn’t know what was going on. He couldn’t be rude, but he was trying very hard to think of a way to let her down gently, and yet still be able to face her over the next few days.

When he felt a hand on his arm, then, he felt he was justified in jumping a bit. It was, after all, the arm right next to her. But she didn’t wear a ring like that. He looked up into Mycroft’s face, smiling in relief.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m afraid I need to sweep him away.” 

Greg barely noticed the polite protestations. He was vaguely aware that he had said something in response, on autopilot, before following Mycroft over to the stairs. 

“You took your coat off,” he blurted finally, hurrying to take the stairs beside the taller man. No good would come of it if he followed him.

“I’m sorry, I simply couldn’t bear it. I considered breaking a window, but thought it might cause less distress this way.”

“I am so glad I didn’t know this sooner.”

“I took great care to make sure you didn’t.”

“Thank you for that.” Greg glanced aside at Mycroft. He seemed tired, but determined. 

Mycroft ran one finger under his collar, behind the cravat, his eyes flickering in Greg’s direction without making contact. “Not yet,” he muttered, his eyes still hard.

Greg ducked his head and let his reflexes take over, bounding up the stairs two at a time without looking back.

By the time Mycroft made it back to the room, Greg had already removed the bandoliers, the belt, thrown the gauntlets God-knew-where, and slammed the door the instant Mycroft was past it, grabbing at his face.

When Mycroft didn’t stop laughing, Greg pulled back enough so he wouldn’t choke. “You fucking lean-arsed prick. You were going to walk in front of me all the way up the stairs, weren’t you? Of all the bastardly, cunt-worthy things to do...”

Mycroft tipped his head back and laughed, pushing Greg away gently. “I value my life just a bit more than that,” he admitted. “Just a moment.” He turned away and crossed to the window, slapping the latches aside and flinging them open. _“Ahh,”_ he sighed, reaching his hand out to Greg, beckoning him closer.

Greg slid his hand around Mycroft’s hips, leaning his face onto the shoulder of the waistcoat, closing his eyes. “Still warm?”

“Do you mind?” Mycroft asked softly, tipping his cheek against the top of Greg’s head. “We’ll have to keep our voices down.”

“I think I can manage that. I’ll just take things... a little more... slowly.”

Greg stepped carefully around in front of Mycroft, feeling the crisp cool of the night air against his back, the hairs of his arms almost moving as the rush of heat passed over them, leaving the room. He ran his fingers along the taller man’s jaw, barely touching, feeling the faintest brush of stubble. The grey-blue eyes fluttered closed, briefly, but reopened. 

Greg felt that this time, it was his turn to be in charge. He looked away from Mycroft’s face, licking his lips as his fingers outlined the shoulders of the waistcoat, running along the armholes, feeling the heat from Mycroft’s body. He set his hands on Mycroft’s chest, feeling a change to his shape, a hardness under the embroidered lapels. “Mycroft Holmes, you sly old thing. Are you actually carrying concealed weapons?”

Mycroft held his lower lip between his teeth, lifting his eyebrows with a shrug. “Always. Of course.”

Greg laughed. “Daft. I didn’t mean like that.”

“Intent, I find, is everything.”

There were five cloth-covered buttons on the waistcoat, and Greg took his time, unhooking the fob of the watch chain, tucking it into the pocket next to the watch. He could see the ends of the cravat, now, hanging loose against Mycroft’s chest. He set one palm over Mycroft’s heart and pushed, gently, urging him one step back, then another, until the backs of his legs bumped the bed. “Sit.”

Mycroft did, slowly and deliberately. As his face slid into Greg’s line of sight again, he raised an eyebrow, and pushed himself farther back on the bed, inviting Greg to straddle his lap. Greg shook his head, toeing off his shoes, smiling as he felt Mycroft doing the same. “You’ve never done period dress before at all, have you?”

Mycroft shook his head, once. “And you know why.”

“Then you won’t know how very, very useful the trousers are.”

“Oh, I’m a fast study.” 

“Yes, you are. But there’s nothing like a little bit of first-hand experience.”

“Then show me.”

Greg shook his head again, sliding his hands up under the shoulders of Mycroft’s waistcoat, tracing the line of Mycroft’s braces, then pausing. “What the hell?” He pushed the waistcoat back onto Mycroft’s arms. “Leather braces?”

“Something wrong?”

“You’re...” Greg swept the waistcoat down Mycroft’s arms and threw it aside, fingering the thick leather strap that ran over each of his shoulders. What he had felt under the waistcoat was a buckle along either strap, allowing the length to be adjusted. Greg frowned, smiled, and then laughed. “I don’t even know what to think, now. That’s just...kinky.”

Mycroft grinned slowly. “Oh, really?”

“I just... I don’t know what to think.” He bent down and kissed Mycroft, slowly, sucking on his lips, cupping one hand around the base of his skull, the other hand still lingering on the leather buckle along his ribs, sinking his nails into the suede back of the strap, his thumb sliding across the smooth finish on the front. “Something else you arranged to hide from me all evening?”

“Gregory, if we had dressed together... Well, it would simply never have happened,” he said, reaching up to slide his fingers around the bundle of aubergine silk under Greg’s chin, leaning back and pulling Greg onto the bed on top of him. 

Greg caught his weight on his arms, trying to resist Mycroft’s tugging. “Hey, hey, hey...” He reached up to the cravat, fumbling to find the pin and remove it. “You’re going to tear it if you keep going like that.”

“That is no kind of deterrent,” Mycroft said, tightening his hold. 

Greg shook his head, laughing, letting Mycroft pull him down this time, their thighs pressed together by his weight. “Oh, hello.”

“Hello, Gregory.” Mycroft began stroking the front of Greg’s waistcoat, nudging his ribs lightly through the dark brown tweed, and for a moment, Greg didn’t realise he was also working loose the buttons on Greg’s waistcoat. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Greg said, trying to arch up and away. 

Mycroft grabbed his wrists and snapped them apart, spread-eagling Greg on his chest with no leverage, snarling, their lips inches apart. “Do not even think of raising your voice,” he murmured, his eyes flickering between Greg’s. “I will gag you in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t need to make a loud noise,” Greg said, weighing his options, Mycroft’s shifting mood, the privacy or lack thereof. “But I’m not sure they’ll take too kindly to smashing the furniture.”

“Most of it they wouldn’t even notice,” Mycroft answered, letting go of Greg’s wrists, tracing the lines of the muscles in his forearms, which had suddenly gone limp under Mycroft’s touch. “But a wardrobe, perhaps, maybe a bed... yes, that would possibly draw attention.” He slid the tips of his fingers underneath the wads of Greg’s rolled-up shirtsleeves. “Were you likely to do anything like that?”

Greg had had to turn his face away, all but paralyzed as Mycroft’s fingers stroked him, so gently, so lightly. “You are a pitiless asshole. How do you feel about doing laundry in the sink, then?”

“So close, are you?” He could hear the smile in Mycroft’s voice.

“That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

Mycroft smoothed his hands down Greg’s arms, back onto his wrists. “I believe I was trying to remove some of your clothing, before you rebelled.”

Greg pushed himself up, curling his hands on Mycroft’s chest, trying to ignore the deep, rich blue silk puddled there. “Every time I think it’s safe to trust you, you do this to me. You just take me apart. Fun for you, is it?” Mycroft’s smile was threatening, this time. “Yeah? What if I stop cooperating?” He got his fingers under the leather straps, forced them aside, dragging the leather down off Mycroft’s shoulders despite their combined weight pinning Mycroft’s shoulder blades to the bed. Mycroft winced, and Greg was sure it had left a mark. “I usually don’t, because it always seems a bit unfair.”

“How?” Mycroft asked, before Greg had even stopped speaking. 

“Oh, we’re not getting into this now.” He poised both hands above Mycroft’s shoulders, pinched a fold of his smooth, crisp cotton shirt, and lifted gently, just once, much as Mycroft had done outside, earlier. He let go again, and smoothed the cotton back against Mycroft’s skin, feeling it warm through again with the heat of his body. “I want to get back to what I was doing. Which was remembering what I wanted to do when we went for that walk.”

To Greg’s everlasting delight, Mycroft Holmes actually groaned. “We will never manage to woo peaceably, will we,” he sighed, tipping Greg off him to one side and rolling to face him, leaning on his elbow. “Gregory Lestrade, you are the face of all I cannot resist in this world, and shall someday bring me to ruin.”

“I can leave,” Greg offered mildly.

Mycroft let his eyes trail away from Greg’s face, reaching out to undo the final, top button of his waistcoat, looping his long fingers into the length of deep, dark purple cravat now freed, and teased it to one side, across Greg’s chest. “No, I don’t think you can.”

“I can’t even try,” Greg admitted.

“I can’t allow you to try.” He ran a finger down the front of Greg’s shirt, his nail carefully following the pinstripe woven in. “You would have been monstrous no matter when you were born, you realise?”

“And by ‘monstrous,’ of course, you mean...?” Greg prompted, catching the finger with his fist.

“Inhumanly, impossibly attractive. I wonder that people don’t turn and stare at you on the street.”

“Nah. I’m just impossibly modest to go with it.”

“You are. The symmetry of your face, the depth of your eyes, the strength of your jaw -”

“The grey of my hair, the hardness of your erection...”

Mycroft snorted, the laugh crinkling his eyes. “The softness of your brain.”

“Do not start this again, Holmes, I am warning you. If you want to seduce me, get on with it, or I shall go sit in the window. Naked. And moan. Loudly.”

“I can’t have that, can I?” Mycroft rolled closer, pushing Greg’s waistcoat aside, folding it back, pushing it off his arms. “Lie back. And do not speak,” Mycroft added quickly, seeing the mischief in Greg’s eyes and raising a finger. “Be still, Greg.”

Greg’s lips twitched, but he kept them closed, cooperating as Mycroft pulled the mocha tweed from under him and threw it across the bed, onto the floor. “Not to be stepped on, not seen from the door or the window,” he said quickly, again stopping Greg before he could make another silly comment. “Now, hush.” He leaned down, kissing him, his eyes sliding closed as he worked on the buttons of Greg’s shirt, found the collar stud, worked it loose under the back of Greg’s neck, dropping it, working the detached collar loose from under the cravat before dropping that as well in favour of burying his fingers in the short, thick hair at the back of Greg’s head, then leaning further and burying his face in the silver thatch.

Greg was trapped now, held in place by the weight of Mycroft’s body across his chest, but what paralyzed him more was the soft, maddening drape of Mycroft’s dark blue silk cravat across his face. He had been trying to support some of Mycroft’s weight, his elbows digging into the bed, his hands balanced under Mycroft’s ribcage. Now he gave up, his hands sliding up and around the smooth cotton shirt, hugging Mycroft close, inhaling the scent of him, the mix of his cologne and shaving soap, still so warm from his skin, filtered through the soft, clinging silk. He could feel Mycroft’s ribs expand as he drew deep breaths across the top of Greg’s head, sharply enough that Greg could feel the cooler air moving through his hair. 

His cock bobbed with each of their breaths, painfully, still stuck in his trousers. Every time one of them thought it would be clever to prolong their foreplay, this happened. They fully intended to be fair and patient, and then at least one of them would be rubbed half-raw before they regained the discipline to work buttons, zippers, even elastic. There would be swearing, fumbling, a rush, soreness, and absolutely sincere promises that they simply couldn’t keep acting like this, that it was the newness, that they would remember. And yet here was Greg once again biting his lip, his muscles clenched as he tried to persuade himself that Mycroft wouldn’t leave if he let go, that things would continue, the moment would not be lost, that there would never be a last time.

Suddenly Mycroft was pulling away, thrashing loose, fighting him, rolling off him and jumping off the bed.

“My God!” Greg gasped, sitting up, terrified by the look on Mycroft’s face. “Jesus, Mycroft, are you all right?”

He had backed up against the windowsill, his hands behind him as he sank down to sit on it. “Greg, don’t say those things,” he said, shaking his head, his eyes wide, wider than Greg had ever seen them. 

“What did I say? I didn’t say anything until you just belted across the room!” 

Mycroft was still staring at him, one hand finally running over his mouth, his chin, even scratching through his hair. Tears started in Greg’s eyes. He had never, ever seen Mycroft do that. If he touched his hair, it was functional, never distracted. Mycroft Holmes did not do that.

“Please, God, Mycroft, I swear I didn’t say anything. What did you hear?” He held one hand out, afraid that Mycroft might pull back.

Mycroft blinked, looked at his hand, then reached out to it, quickly, grabbing it, moving to stand directly in front of Greg, twisting their hands together. “Greg, you were talking about leaving. That this was going to be our last time.” He set his fingers against Greg’s jaw, tilting his head up. “You said that.”

“Oh, God, Mycroft, I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t say anything.”

Mycroft studied him, the question between them clearly calming him, giving him focus. “Greg, it was your voice. I felt your lips move. I felt the heat on my neck, the vibration...” 

“Mycroft, I didn’t speak. I did not say anything. I swear to you.”

Mycroft frowned, but nodded once. “You think you’re telling the truth.” He pulled his hands away, ran them against his thighs, then turned and sat on the edge of the bed again, one leg curled under him. “This isn’t good.”

“You’re telling me,” Greg retorted, flinching a little. “It’s like you’re telling me I’m possessed.”

To his relief, Mycroft snorted at the idea. “Well. You’ve seen me do things I can’t remember in the morning, so I’m hardly one to suggest it.”

“Really, Mycroft, I didn’t say anything.” He reached for his hands again. “I promise.”

“I understand, Greg. I do. I know you believe that. But I cannot account for...” He trailed off, shrugging, his eyes wide again.

“Okay, right, so, let’s think.” Greg shook himself. “Between the two of us, we’ve managed through worse, eh?”

“Ah, Greg.” Mycroft smiled fondly, reaching up to the back of Greg’s neck, resting their foreheads together. “Your first instincts. Make sure everyone’s safe, then look for witnesses.”

“We’ve got two, and I’d call us pretty fucking reliable.”

Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes. “After.”

“After what?”

“I’m going to finish fucking you, and then you can ask me to be reliable, hm?”

“You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

Greg pulled back. “Sweetheart, you just gave me the fright of my life, and then you told me that I said... something I cannot even _repeat._ And you want me to...?”

“Yes. _Yes_ , Greg. No, I don’t want you - I _need_ you to. I do not wish this evening to end with that thought still in my head. Or in yours.”

“Is this something you learned when you were little? Some bizarre kind of, I dunno, secret Holmes mating ritual? Find someone, scare them shitless, then bang them senseless on top?”

“This is your second warning, Lestrade. I _will_ gag you.”

Greg took a deep breath. “Right. Okay, this one’s up to you. I am still shaking.”

“I can feel that,” Mycroft said, his voice low, smooth. “And for all the wrong reasons.”

“You know I’m not leaving you.”

“I know that. I do. And I shall not leave you. And certainly not tonight.” Mycroft looked up at him, smiling, then ran his eyes down Greg’s torso. “Ahh. Let us start a new tradition, shall we?” He reached down to Greg’s fly, very gently, and slipped the buttons loose.

That was enough. Greg’s erection hadn’t completely subsided, but now that it was free, he was a little dizzy with the sudden surge of lust. “Come here, you.” Mycroft smiled, allowing himself to be dragged forward into Greg’s arms, while his hands slipped his own trousers open. 

“Greg.”

“Mm.” Greg pulled face away from Mycroft’s ear, blinking. “Okay?”

“Get this collar off of me.”

Greg started to laugh, but Mycroft’s eyes were closed, his face serious. “You okay?” Greg was already looping his fingers into the blue silk as he asked.

“No.” Mycroft’s hand came down on his, stopping him. “Just the collar.”

“But you’re okay?” Greg repeated.

“I will be.”

Greg smiled, digging his fingers beneath the silk at the back of Mycroft’s neck to find the collar stud. “Do you know how unbearable it is to watch you knot a tie?”

Mycroft’s eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Yes, I do.”

“You know?”

Finally Mycroft opened his eyes. “Of course. Yes, of course I do.”

Greg stared at him, smiling. “Of course you do.” He shook his head, but shifted his arms to winkle out the front collar stud, and slide the collar free.

He wanted to say something. Something reassuring. _There you go._ Maybe ask if it helped. But instead, he was looking at the silk as it fell around Mycroft’s neck, resting on the pale skin. The light blue stone of the tie pin still held the remains of Mycroft’s careful knot in place, but the fabric was limp now without the stiff collar holding it taut. 

“Of course I know you watch me,” Mycroft said quietly, one hand reaching up to the side of Greg’s face, his eyes closed again. “I always know when you look at me. What you look at. What you think, how you feel.”

“You’re inside my head.”

“I wish to be, yes. Your thoughts are so soft. Feeling. Understanding. I deal in minds like fists, hammers, claws. The ones who rise to prominence by being wielded like weapons. The bright, the harsh, the hard, the calloused. Whereas you... you surround things, soak them in. You have such a long reach, as you bend without breaking. You have strength I never can see enough of. Quick, nimble, but your astonishing patience... mmm. The slow look is every bit as worthy as the blinding glance. More. You see across time, more than the single image, you see everything.”

Greg let Mycroft’s voice lull him. He’d lost all sense of the words. Mycroft’s hands were stroking his back as he spoke, wandering the length of his spine, exploring the vertebrae, tracing whorls around them, kneading at the muscles of his neck. Between the hands and the voice, Greg felt surrounded, invaded, feeling his voice, smelling his skin, hearing his hands moving across his shirt. Without touching his cock, Mycroft was coaxing his erection, gathering him, pulling him along. He wanted to moan, he wanted to clench his fingers, he wanted to bite and chew and buck and thrash, pin Mycroft to the bed, taste his cheeks, feel his breath from the inside out. But the quiet voice had him pinned instead, the hands distracting him, keeping his awareness in motion.

“I shall not let you go, Gregory. I cannot. I should chase you, and never give up. You could never be so far from me that I could not feel you. Nothing will keep me away from you.  No distance, no obstacle, no walls, no resistance, nothing will ever separate us. There is only a beginning, we have no end.”

Greg gasped, as if surfacing from a dive, curling into Mycroft’s arms and clinging to him, rocking as he pulsed to stillness, barely able to catch his breath until the surge was over.

Mycroft had fallen silent, holding him, stilling with him, breathing with him. He stayed silent until Greg finally spoke. “Jesus.”

“Still not my name.”

It was a full second until Greg laughed, his eyes popping open. “You bastard.”

He was a little relieved to see Mycroft’s smile. “Also untrue, but I appreciate the effort.”

Greg stroked his hand across Mycroft’s chest, then frowned as he felt something cool on Mycroft’s sleeve, and leaned closer. “I didn’t...”

“Not how you think, no,” Mycroft said, looking down at the damp, then raising his hand to Greg’s face and running his thumb below Greg’s eye. 

Greg wiped at his face, looking at his hand as well. “I didn’t even realise.”

“Quite the loveliest thing I’ve ever felt.”

“I don’t even remember what you were saying.”

“That’s no insult. You knew I meant it.”

Greg glanced down at Mycroft’s fly. From the amount of cum pooled on them, it took Greg a moment to realise. “That was a bit selfish of me.”

“Or of me.”

“I’m the one who got off, not you.”

“That’s not the only satisfaction.”

“Then think of it as me spoiling you.”

“You don’t -”

Greg put his fingers across Mycroft’s lips. “Think. Before you try to finish that.”

He waited until he felt the tightness of Mycroft’s lips change, pulled his hand away and watched him nod slowly, accepting.

“I’d like to hold you,” Greg said quietly, again waiting until Mycroft nodded assent before turning and leaning against the pillows, gathering him onto his chest. He felt Mycroft’s breath hitch a little as he settled and looked down, seeing the light catching his lashes, highlighting them against the deep purple now spread across his chest. “Sometimes, my lover, you can be so impossible.” Mycroft drew breath to respond, but Greg hugged him tighter, then reached down to his cock. “No. _No._ I just mean that... I don’t know what I mean.” He shifted his fingers, changed his grip. “I try, for you.”

Mycroft’s head tipped back, and Greg could feel his body shifting, his spine curving and relaxing even as his limbs tensed, his hands tightening against Greg’s shirt. Greg let his fingers wander a bit, palpating, running lightly across the length of his prick, just grazing the tip, watching Mycroft’s eyebrows shift, lifting his face away from Greg’s chest, his lips parted until his hissed a bit, and caught his lip between his teeth. Without proper lubrication, Greg had to improvise, but Mycroft’s face could be as expressive as Greg’s own nerve endings, and he would have done anything just now for this man.

On a sudden impulse, he reached up to his neck. Mycroft whimpered, a soft, animal noise in the back of his throat, but Greg moved quickly and had his hand back before Mycroft could open his eyes. He resumed his rhythm, rolling his fingers across the length of  his erection, then pausing again, taking one end of the cravat draped across his thigh, and brushing it lightly against the tip of Mycroft’s penis.

It took a moment, but then the blue eyes were open, and wide. Greg flinched as the long fingers dug into his thigh, but managed to clench his throat before any sound escaped, thrilling at the reaction he’d provoked. Mycroft winced, squeezing his eyes closed again, his entire body tensed, pleading. Greg shifted his arm, cradling him before he drew the entire length of the silk slowly along his prick, letting the silk drape across the skin, prolonging the movement. Mycroft hissed again, his eyelids fluttering, his palm pressing hard on Greg’s thigh as his fingers stretched, shuddering, his neck straining as he turned his head. 

Greg hadn’t thought what to do next, and let go of the cool fabric to adjust his grip, but then Mycroft’s eyes were wide again, and his ejaculation spurted against Greg’s hand. _“Greg...!”_ He arched, turned his face into Greg’s neck, and pressed closer until the spasms slowed.

Greg held him, gradually relaxing his own hand on Mycroft’s arm and wishing he could bring himself to stroke his chest in spite of the cooling, sticky mess on his other hand. “It’s a good thing we didn’t rent,” he said quietly, his words slurred against the warmth of Mycroft’s hair.

“Would not have mattered.”

“I didn’t know, and I’m sorry,” Greg said gently.

Mycroft roused himself, and looked up. “Know what?”

“That,” Greg said, nodding at Mycroft’s crotch, where the purple silk was still pooled across  his penis.

Mycroft’s eyebrows flickered and he let his head fall back against Greg’s chest. “Inspired guess, then.”

“I should have known, though.”

“Now you do. Never mind.” Mycroft stretched, rolling slightly and wincing as the silk shifted against him. “Shower?”

“God, yes. But...” He made a face, nodding at the cooling, drying puddles on both of them. “I can’t say I regret it, but still.”

“Certainly not. Shower first.” 

Greg waited for Mycroft to get up, not commenting at the slow blink as he brushed the wet purple silk off himself with the back of his hand. Then he was up, standing next to the bed and holding out his hand to help Greg up. “Don’t think,” Mycroft offered quietly as Greg gingerly sat himself up. “Just move. Thinking can all wait until morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Go on, spot the ghost. I dare ya. If you can also get the casting right, you may win a prize!


End file.
